


Canary

by TexasDreamer01



Category: Star Trek: The Next Generation
Genre: Blood and Injury, Character Study, M/M, Mentions of Dominion War, Mentions of the Q Civil War, Minor Character Death, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Pre-Relationship, Psychic Bond, Relationship Study, Tags May Change, Warnings May Change, quantum physics
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-10-26
Updated: 2020-12-28
Packaged: 2021-03-09 01:42:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 5,536
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27206093
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TexasDreamer01/pseuds/TexasDreamer01
Summary: Thou hast not far to seekThy bread, nor needest wineTo make thy utterance divine;Thou art canopied and clothedAnd unto Song betrothed.- Edmund Clarence Stedman
Relationships: Jean-Luc Picard/Q
Comments: 16
Kudos: 17
Collections: Qcard Big Bang





	1. Il faut cultiver notre jardin

**Author's Note:**

> > Thou hast not far to seek  
> Thy bread, nor needest wine  
> To make thy utterance divine;  
> Thou art canopied and clothed  
> And unto Song betrothed.
> 
> By Edmund Clarence Stedman, "The Songster", Stanza 2; reported in _Hoyt's New Cyclopedia Of Practical Quotations (1922)_ , p. 89.
> 
> In true Star Trek fashion, this is very heavily based on some scientific principles - namely, [qubits](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Qubit) and [quantum information](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Quantum_information), otherwise this will come across as a little odd.
> 
> It will also help to have a more precise understanding of [holographic principle](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Holographic_principle), [Holevo's theorem/bound](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Holevo%27s_theorem), and [superdense coding](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Superdense_coding) for the future chapters. It's a complex subject, but please don't hesitate to ask if you have any questions, I'll do my best to explain!
> 
> An honorary tag for Fall Out Boy's _Last of the Real Ones_ for setting the mood of the fic, and Shakespeare for being a commonality between Picard and Q.

Q exhales, feeling the press of creativity making and unmaking the fluttering press of his wounded self, the fiction of a shoulder soaking in reminiscent blood sluggishly painting his side a coat-soaked red. The other Q had dragged him to a boon of safety, space cocooning him into a pocket of time as he painstakingly rearranged his spirit around the wound, coaxing the bullet away from him - or rather, he from the bullet, disentangling the two with surgically-applied thought.

It was difficult, exhaustion muddling his mind and making them drift into a useless scatter that wanted to blend with the Continuum. _Rest_ , it beckoned him, the pull of his own weariness and the manipulations of the institutional Q threatening to undo the knot of personality that bound him together.

A Q he was, though, and _Q_ he was dubbed. The scattered memory of Picard shaping the vowel into a name flickered across his mind, unknowingly sculpting an extra bloom of sentience with the appellation. He smiled fondly, reaching up to press at his shoulder. The captain was a warming memory, boundless as a font of encouragement that he drew from, a resuscitating energy that allowed him to repair himself.

The lines of communication between other Q were fraught with cross-talk, pinging and mixing in a subsuming crest of fatigue and worry. Idly, reshaping himself around the wound given to him by Q, he mused yet again about how difficult it was to fight a war against, essentially, oneself.

Jean-Luc would have a book on it, surely, some parable ready on his lips as if it lived there. Surely, with the passionate wisdom spouted from the man’s mouth, _some_ thing was waiting at the ready, only needing the right circumstances to baffle Q with the marvellous curls of debate that kept him coming back to the _Enterprise_. It never failed to rouse a tendril of fondness, no matter how vehemently _le capitaine_ swore.

A rattle disturbed the delicate shell of Q’s bolt-hole, indicative of the canons twisted into existence to muddle the battlegrounds all Q had mutually agreed upon. The other Q were attempting to smoke him out, and it could well prove devastatingly effective. It was almost a tempting thought to see how long it would take, to observe an objective assessment of their enemy’s skills.

But- the facsimile of his heart quivered with the familiar strangle of grief, remembering Quinn’s resigned, insistent march toward death. It would be untoward of Q to give up this campaign so easily, to have these rights besmirched and its consequences swept under the illusory rug. He grimaced, yanking himself out of the bullet lodged in his shoulder, resolving his will and form at once.

They needed a way to speak, to declare this gallant vision brought forth by a gasping breath and potion of death unhindered by such petty things as arbitrary traditions. Duty to creating the multi-verses and standing against the Omega Continuum’s own countermanding directive would need tempering, particularly should existence grow so dull and lacklustre that assimilation into its fabric was an appealing possibility.

His heart sparked, a strengthened existence at the frenzy of recollections brought on by Jean-Luc’s singular existence, thumping a pulse through him – yes, _son capitaine_ would know what to do.

It was, after all, a revolution. He could do with a Frenchman.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter's title is from Voltaire's _Candide_ : "Cela est bien, repondit Candide, mais il faut cultiver notre jardin." (Translation: "This/that is good, responds Candide, but we must cultivate our garden.")


	2. The unsolicited honour

The beeping of his alarm clock roused a groan from Jean-Luc. He huffed, untangling himself from the sheets to slap a hand over the snooze button. _These long nights are not getting any easier for me_.

As it were, the _Enterprise_ waited for no one, and it was that thought which propelled him out of bed, shucking on his slippers with a habitual motion as he ambled toward the closet. His typical uniform was laid out across his bedroom’s chair, the familiar sight helping to order his thoughts into the coherency needed for his day’s work.

Thinking wistfully of his upcoming breakfast, Jean-Luc swiftly made his bed, eager to shower and already tasting that first sip of coffee. There was a full docket of tasks for the day, preparation for the upcoming flow of recommended updates from Operations and Engineering to be delegated as needed, though he was mostly looking forward to Data’s running commentary on how to merge the new maps sent from Starfleet Command with their existing database.

It was a brief lull on battle, and the ship was in good health, the last battle a distant memory now that there was a comforting hum under his feet of a fully-operational engine. It was this and other reassurances that let him sigh out a centering breath, performing his toilette with only the same running internal monologue of his duties that had grounded him through nearly thirty years of service commanding star ships.

He was still organizing the mantra that was his to-do list as he dressed, exchanging the comfortingly-soft slippers for polished dress shoes, straightening his overshirt on his way to the replicator.

“ _Celeste d’Oro Chiaro, chaud_.” He requested, wanting the swift indulgence of caffeine to pry open his eyelids into proper wakefulness. The replicator delivered one half of his breakfast with a reassuringly familiar sound of crystallization, and he quickly plucked the steaming cup, eager to sit down and enjoy it.

The personal terminal on his desk was quicker to boot up than him, and Jean-Luc decided to get started on the backlog of mail downloading to his inbox. He sighed into his coffee, savouring the faint licorice blend of pungent sweetness on his tongue before setting the cup down with a decisive clink onto its saucer.

Emails filtered into his inbox while he waited, the algorithm for sorting them into appropriate folders ranking them efficiently by order of precedence and the exceedingly-long list of senders that merited a priority flag. He huffed, taking a moment to grouse to himself that this trawling war against the Dominion was ruffling the chain of command and encouraging an unorthodox manner of cross-talk.

It had its merits of excitement, yes, and the young man at heart stirred at strategizing on the fly and occasionally being the spear-head of an attack with klaxons deafening all sounds of fear, but the potency of its thrill had become overused. _Boring_ , Jean-Luc thought, _has its appeal_.

The banality of fulfilling the _Enterprise_ ’s original orders of exploration and meeting new peoples would, at the very least, restore some of vigour to the crew and allow them to lower their shoulders from where they had been firmly affixed about their ears. Scanning the emails, noting the assortment of ship reports from the overnight crew and movement updates from the front lines, he wondered if it would be possible to negotiate for a more secluded assignment as a proxy form of vacation.

Because of the tireless and valiant efforts of his crew, he knew that they were one of the best in their class, always rallying themselves to their objective with a loyalty that was heartening. He sighed into his tea, wondering if those crewmembers that had passed on rested peacefully - despite how doggedly he fought with strategies and even brute force, a few always slipped through his grasp.

It made the delicate sweetness of his coffee rest bitterly on his tongue, seeping into those emotional wounds Jean-Luc hoped would truly lessen with time. The pips resting on his throat weighed heavily with the knowledge that he was responsible for those deaths, sharp edges of its consequences blunted by duty only in small degrees. Absurdly, he could only wonder what Q thought of this entire, mortal mess.

Surely such a corporeal matter was observed from a distance - it seemed ludicrous to think that Q had personally experienced the shedding of a mortal coil. How could he? For all Jean-Luc knew, the insufferable entity would exist with coy word and sharp smirk in perpetuity, a scrap of ice in the frothing torrents of mortality that threatened to eclipse the unchanging nature of a Q.

Contemplating the lowering bounds of his cup, he could admit within the safety of his own mind that Q’s limitless existence was… comforting. The admiral-bedecked man that so carefully turned the pages of Shakespeare with an absorbed gaze, who in another breath remorselessly challenged his beliefs and yet vacated his chair at the first downturn of a frown, French alighting from his lips as quickly as carefully-sharpened barbs. It was- yes, Jean-Luc nodded to himself, it was _gratifying_ to know that he himself would live on in the fossilized time of a timeless being, a thin but ever-present ring in an immortal tree to mark his existence.

Less freely admitted, however, was the ember of comfort it granted the back of his mind whenever the only thing standing between him and tomorrow was naught but a prayer and a phaser. _Someone_ , he carefully never thought, _would remember me_. And was that not the crux of the issue? Someone so aggravating as Q was a cache of memory, Jean-Luc being but one whisper tucked away in a hoard of millennia. It was a strength unusually-gained, hard-pressed as he would be to divulge such a secret.

His terminal pinged with its automatic sorting, the prioritization of his docket delivered decisively. The scrolling, colourful list of senders and subjects would easily take him the entire day - and he sighed, shrugging on the mental mantle of captaincy again as he set his cup atop its saucer, distantly missing the idle breakfasts he used to share with Beverly. Alas, their duties clamored for attention nearly from dawn ‘til dusk, and his croissants were a little more lonely without its accompaniment of light gossip and gentle grousing of daily musings.

Most of these messages could be handled from his datapad, and so the next few minutes were spent carefully flagging which ones were to be downloaded for offline usage while he debated whether to order a croissant, rushed breakfast be damned. Absorbed as he was, the absent reach for his cup missed its mark, clattering in its saucer as it splashed.

“ _Merde_ ,” He muttered, carefully gathering up the cup and saucer, sighing at how the fragrant coffee dripped down the back of his fingers. Placing it in the recycling receptacle by the replicator, Jean-Luc decided he was more upset by the waste of espresso than the tingling of his fingers as he washed them off. _Likely just the shock_ , he decided, deciding to grab that croissant anyway to make up for the disgruntlement.

His thoughts wandered as he ate, straying to his memories of Q and wondering what the other would think of... well, everything, he supposed. The rigor of mortal existence must seem fascinating to the being, though being confined to such a limiting form and position in society would be a unique stressor.

 _And yet_ , He thought, savouring the buttery flakes of the still-steaming breakfast, _Q would no doubt try to learn everything about it, anyway_.

Such musings carried him through the rest of his morning tasks all the way to the Bridge. Calling out a good morning to those who were on rotation this morning, he settled in for the preliminary report from his officers, the phantom touch of coffee upon his fingers entirely forgotten.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter's title comes from Jean Bailly, a French astronomer and philosopher, a quote in reference to his promotion to States-General of France, "That honor ought neither to be solicited nor refused." I find the following paragraph on his page on [Bartleby.com](https://www.bartleby.com/344/31.html) fitting to Picard, as well:
>
>> When some regretted that by his election his studies would be suspended, he made the patriotic answer, "I am a Frenchman: and if I can co-operate in the enactment of a good law, that is preferable to a hundred astronomical calculations."
> 
> And I thought to myself, "You know, it's a bit weird that Star Trek doesn't have tablets. Let's give them some." Because intermediary, portable computer devices have _got_ to be a thing for someone out there - why not a Star Fleet captain? I heavily doubt that whenever he sits in the Bridge for any length of time, that he's twiddling his thumbs and gossiping. ~~And calling it a tablet seems both too on the nose, and highly reminiscent of the clay slab~~.
> 
> Picard's coffee is an espresso from the brand [Celeste d'Oro](http://www.celestedoro.com/product/celeste-doro-chiaro/), an Italian company that seems to roast some fine beans. The Chiaro sort is, according the them, "Soft and intense. Thanks to the licorice and laurel flavor, this became a coffee with character. A characteristic espresso with a low acidity and a little sweet flavor". Fitting for Picard's personality, no? I also honestly can't see a French person drinking percolated coffee, and an espresso is one of the more traditional types of coffee to have with a croissant for a quick breakfast.


	3. It grows perhaps the greater

As the day stretched onwards, Jean-Luc found that his thoughts were equally as languid, a morass of humming distractions that strolled by in monotone. The only thing that could capture his attention was the slight imperfection of colour throughout the ship, a vague mutedness that made him wonder – of all the unprofessional wanderings of his mind – why the Bridge was decorated so mind-numbingly _plainly_.

It was as if he were viewing the ship through a new set of eyes, boredom weaving its thrall on his mind. He attempted to remedy it by sequestering himself in his office, but the previously-colourful selection of flags on his messages was now an unpleasant sort of chaos, no harmony to the selection of colours – there were a precious few minutes he struggled to not redesign all of it to something more pleasant, a winding rabbit-hole all its own. As it were, he murmured some excuse and set to the decks, seeking something rather nebulous.

The rhythm of the crew and the sprinkling of accompanying family members in their daily habits was soothing, but only undecidedly reassuring in capturing his attention for more than a few moments at a time. He pursed his lips as he entered the sixth turbolift of the day, something pressing him onwards to his destination. _May Ithaka be closer than my wits_ , he thought, for there was only so long for him to wander the ship before his faint excuse of stretching his legs to check up on the _Enterprise_ was deemed enough to rouse Number One.

Eventually, his restless legs steered him toward the botany room, refreshing to his agitation with its effervescent freshness. It took him a moment to adjust to the abundance of light, diodes programmed to replicate the wavelengths the plants grew best under, but the sight of such varied colours among the greenery never failed to rouse him to cheerfulness.

He strolled between the rows of vegetables and fruits that supplied the crew with fresh foods when replicator fatigue began to set in, idly admiring the horticultural skill it took to keep so many lives thriving. _A room full of life_ , Jean-Luc though, trailing a finger down the stem of a miniature strawberry just beginning to bleed into its signature red, his fond smile edging toward melancholy, _Bred for other’s consumption_.

Such a maudlin tone seemed fitting with his restlessness, even as it juxtaposed with the energetic swaying of fronds and stems in the breeze created by the life support system. For a moment, the scene swelled in his mind’s eye, a crystallized snap-shot of the multiple, overlaying systems bouncing into each other in a delicate tangle of coordination – the hydroponic systems swirling nutrients to dozens of plants, the lights exuding life-giving warmth, the artificial breeze meant to stimulate the passive immune system of each microsystem, all housed in a bitterly cold abode of metal alloy with a door that led to nothing these plants could possibly comprehend.

Jean-Luc inhaled, the scent of greenery settling in his lungs as he imagined the harmony that was all but invisible to mortal eyes such as his, feeling the rhythm thrum in his pulse as it slowed to match. It was not any planet these lives would ever come to know, barring catastrophic circumstances that dismantled the _Enterprise_ , but in this little encapsulation, it was a world all its own.

Perhaps that was its charm, and his thoughts curled together in a languid swirl, some aspect of peace passing through him in tune with the inaudible sounds of his mechanical heart. Between one flicker of his eyes and the next under lids fallen shut, he could envision the sway of this little pocket of existence, a set of notes that chimed in with a greater song that rang through the universe.

It was… soothing, that imagined reassurance that each piece was part of a whole, and for some reason Jean-Luc felt that it was a bolstering thought. Someone out there might find this moment in time comforting, a peace to be striven for, and it nearly made his eyes flicker open at the idea that a memory might be shared between others long after the time has passed. Unwittingly, his mind drifted toward Q, though it felt a little like his thoughts had never really left that corner dedicated to such a mischievous spirit.

He sighed, the action feeling somewhat like closure to a thought – but, for some reason, more like a door left cracked open for the hallway light to seep through the edges. Shaking his head, he departed the garden, the swish of its doors resting like closure on the bushel of emotions laden in his lungs.

* * *

An endless ream of hallways later, and Jean-Luc admitted to himself that part of the anxious energy in his veins was due to the locus of gathered wisps centered around Q. The subtle turmoil churning his stomach gave him a sense of unease, but with no visible discernment to his unsettled state, it left him wandering his own ship like a ghost that needed to be coaxed into resting with murmured words and wafting incense.

Deserted though this current stretch of corridor was, it didn’t stop the flinch at the abrupt boom that echoed through his ears – there was no accompaniment to this rocking of his center of gravity except for the crisp snap of grief punched into him, intimately tied with the knowledge of seeing a companion falling in battle. Jean-Luc blinked furiously, attempting to reconcile the objective alone-ness of his position with the intense sense of cannon’s fire flashing his vision white, smoke obscuring a perfectly empty hallway with no fire to follow but his intuition’s own insistence.

It felt altogether too close to himself. He sucked in a deep breath, startled by how he swayed into the thought at reaching for the other person, knowing with a bone-deep certainty that was a hurt unto its own that they were already dead, faded into the mists of existence without even a body to bury. Jean-Luc curled his hand closed, stoppering that hiccuped gasp echoed through him with the faint knowledge that this was merely a superficial thought to his distracted mind.

Regardless, he pressed himself into an alcove, murmuring a quick prayer with a heavy heart. His eyes burned in sympathy, heart seeming to kick in a skipped beat like a scratched record forced to play over a worn stanza, and it took a moment to gather himself, the meaning of his uniform weighing heavily upon his shoulders. Thankfully, the corridor was barren except for the press of unsubstantiated grief, and so with a brief tug of his overshirt, Jean-Luc set off again to wherever it was his feet were leading him.

* * *

Indeterminable moments later – perhaps an age, he didn’t know – Jean-Luc arrived at Ten Forward, curiously empty except for the wandering personnel that drifted in from whatever corner of the ship that had previously occupied their time.

His breath was still leaden, though experience informed him that any outward indicators had been smoothed away to naught more than a solemn serenity. In a bout of wistfulness, he slid onto one of the bar’s high seats, leaning against the edge and found himself baffled by the urge to order not one sundae, but ten of them.

_I'll have ten chocolate sundaes … I'm in a really bad mood._

That whisper of a thought that tastes too heavily of a memory is what stops him from greeting Guinan as he attempts to settle himself on the seat, a slim but significant portion of himself balking at the words poised on his lips. For her part, Guinan arches a brow at the drink she’s making for another customer before moving in front of him, leaning against the edge of the counter with clasped hands and a patient expression of curiosity.

“I don’t usually see you here at this hour,” She states calmly, a careful eye on the tone of his silence.

“I’m not usually here at this hour,” He admits, frowning. Wetting his lips, he asked, “Guinan, I- Have you… ever had the feeling, that you know something but you don’t know how you know it?”

Her stare is contemplative, quiet for long enough that he nearly feels the urge to interrupt her thoughts, when she looks down at the bar’s counter and gusts a sigh. “You have some interesting problems to keep you company this morning.”

Jean-Luc dredges up a weak shrug, feeling the urge to blink away the overlapped not-memory of an entirely different Guinan, one who scowled at him between the bustling crowd of customers. It was faint enough to ignore, filtering through his mind’s eye like a particularly potent cup of steeping tea. “It’s a new problem, at least,” He said, not sure if he was reassuring her or himself, “I find myself… uncertain how to interpret it.”

“What are you remembering?” Guinan prompts, eyes old enough to feel comfortable despite the unease wrinkling his composure.

“I-” He inhales, pausing. _War_ , he wants to answer, but with the recent months of communiqués lingering in his email’s message history, the response fell flat even in his own mind. _Guerre_ , his mother tongue purrs at him, bringing with it the lone corridor’s lingering grief sat gunpowder-bitter on his tongue, but it’s a familiar ache that speaking it aloud would likely be incomprehensible without the translator built into Starfleet badges.

He settles instead for the fragile sentiment of “I don’t quite know.”

Guinan, sharp tack that she is, picks up on the nuances left yet unvoiced, and hums at the complete picture painted subtly before her. A pause of her own, and then she nods decisively, pulling out a jigger from under the counter. “What would you like?”

“A chocolate sundae,” Jean-Luc responds immediately, not sure why those barricaded words fly so swiftly from behind his teeth. She blinks at him, a prelude to the piercing stare as she assesses him once more. He flushes, caught off-guard by his own request and the sticky, prying sensation behind his eyes.

All he can offer her is a weak shrug, feeling very uncaptainly. Guinan sighs, shaking her head as she moves the jigger off to the side. What thoughts are crossing her own mind, he can only guess, watching as she swiftly assembles three scoops of ice cream into a tall glass, drizzling a generous amount of chocolate syrup and chopped nuts over it with a flourish honed by her years of bartending.

The jar of cherries that she kept in reserve for just such an occasion was retrieved with a quiet clink of glass, one fragrant cherry retrieved with tongs and set in its crowning glory atop the sundae. Guinan sets it in front of him with a crisp square of a napkin, a dry arch of her brow accompanying it. He accepts it with a murmured thank you, briefly debating whether he should start with the cherry on top or dig into the ice cream below it.

Feeling some unknowable urge prodding him forward, Jean-Luc decides to dig right in, a carefully-ladled spoonful of ice cream with just the right amount of chocolate syrup, nuts, and a dash of liqueur left over from the cherry popped right into his mouth. The tangent balance of flavours makes him sigh, unknotting some depth of tension that had been hiding between his shoulders. A second taste followed quickly after the first, the delightful base of vanilla creamy on his tongue.

It was decadent, and somehow was exactly what he was craving. A corner of his mind was rather bewildered by it, but the comfort of a nostalgic taste that somehow was also entirely new – likely due to his current frame of mind, he reasoned to himself through a third spoonful – overrode any sensible objections to having dessert so soon after breakfast. _A little bit of delightful chaos_ , his mind murmured to him, sounding altogether too much like Q, and for a moment, Jean-Luc could perfectly imagine the quirk of the other’s lips as the words were spoken.

Guinan looked like she didn’t know whether to be concerned or to laugh as he systematically plowed through the dish, divvying up portions of the ice cream like a commander on the battlefield deciding where troops ought to move. He couldn’t help but smile, both at her expression of disbelief and his own behaviour - for really, it was rather ridiculous, wasn’t it? A captain breaking from his shift to wander the ship and lounge around with a sundae.

He couldn’t help but chuckle, Guinan joining him, as he stirred the melted ice cream at the bottom of the glass and fetched the cherry at the bottom for a last finale. Separating the fruit from the stem with a conclusive bite, Jean-Luc relished the burst of tart sweetness that swept his palate clean - the thought briefly caught his mind of the youthful game of tying the cherry stem, but he decided against it despite the prod of curiosity at seeing if he still _could_ , just for the sheer sake of it.

The stem was dropped into the glass with a wistful sigh that felt more monumental than deciding against a passing fancy. He passed the empty glass back with a sheepish look, “Thank you, Guinan. That appears to have hit just the spot.”

“I’ll bet,” She replied, shooting him a look of fond exasperation. It made him once again thankful for their friendship, that his little flights of fancy were taken in stride as graciously as any other quirk of the day.

He rose, bidding her good-bye, feeling just that integral bit less ruffled than he had earlier this morning.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter's title is from _The Fellowship of the Ring_ by J.R.R. Tolkien: "The world is indeed full of peril, and in it there are many dark places; but still there is much that is fair, and though in all lands love is now mingled with grief, it grows perhaps the greater."


	4. Winged Cupid painted blind

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hover-text for translations in situ, as well as a glossary in the end notes, is provided.

Eventually, Jean-Luc arrived in a circuitous route nearly back to where he started, entering the bridge with scarcely an hour passed. He shook his head at Deanna when she gave him a questioning look, and something about his demeanour seems to have settled any concern she had. He could still taste, faintly, that bitter bite of grief as it soothed itself with more concrete memories of his sundae.

It was an easy thing to sit at his captain’s chair and listen to the murmured gossip that served as a homing beacon to the Bridge. He would know this noise anywhere, and its normality settled his shoulders another millimeter lower, the slivered edge of anxiety that had been carried around his mind dulling the burrs of his displaced thoughts. _This_ was his captaincy - the people around him, the ship beneath his feet, and the unknown possibilities yet to be charted before them to be unfolded at his behest.

Such reassurance was heartening, dropping a smile onto his lips as he fetched the datapad nestled in the side of his chair. The coloured tabs looked less garish now, and more playful, his original intentions shining through. It made the latent spur of a headache he had long-practice in ignoring nearly barbless, a minor ping on his radar rather than something to passively, constantly track. His brows knitted faintly together, anyway, knowing his break from habit would eventually rear its consequences.

The hours passed swiftly, items crossed off from his docket as he switched between emails and the crew. The relative inactivity was tranquil, putting him back on even keel with his own mind despite the emotional rigor of the early morning. It was only the scheduled notification popping up on the datapad he had let rest against his crossed knee that roused the dormant headache and restlessness both.

He hid a grimace at the sharp prick at the back of his mind, swiping the notification away in distraction. Already, he felt the languor of his shift eroding away, a tingle in his fingers and an itch to his feet as he rose from the captain’s chair. Bidding the other senior officers a good day, and making vague promises to meet up later that Jean-Luc felt he wouldn’t remember, he exited the Bridge.

Walking away from the Bridge this time had a less-concealed tint of disorientation than it had earlier, and Jean-Luc sucked in a breath, resisting the urge to trail his hand along the walls to steady himself. It seared a brief lash of concern across his brain, pounding in counterpoint to the budding headache where his regulatory implant had been placed so many years ago. The microscopic scarring seemed to pulse anew, a prodding sensation of inspection that had him gritting his teeth against as nausea swelled.

Swaying like the waves, the off-center dual beats retreated, only the faint limed edge of pain remaining to make the coloured spots behind his irises a confusing overlay to his sight. He sighed, forcing his spine to straighten and stomach to behave, as he ambled with regimented calm to his quarters. This was a matter to contend in privacy, and despite the interrupted rhythm of his shift on the Bridge, perhaps another rest would conquer this unease.

* * *

Shifting into his bed, uniform divested for more comforting sleepwear, Jean-Luc slipped quickly into sleep. Though that in itself was a peculiar concern for a man well-used to hauling long hours during his days for a variety of reasons, this switch from active to restive was typical only for the fatiguing restlessness of illness. Even so, such concerns feathered away as he stepped into the abode of unconsciousness.

His dreams were filled with battlefields, desperate moans of the dying and the pattering breaths of those dodging the same fate. _Guerre_ , his mind resumed, a purr that matched the thudding of his heart as his mind whirred, attempting to keep track of all his comrades between the hazy white smoke of cannon fire and whizzing bullets that seemed, for some reason, all the more lethal in this landscape formed purely from thoughts.

With throat tight and clothing patched from multiple injuries that yet ached, Jean-Luc ran to the nearest outpost, the landmark emblazoned in his mind as if enrobed with a golden glow to mark its importance. Distances seemed to expand and contract based upon entirely unpredictable variables as the grieving cry stuck in his throat and the impetus that was some dignified, blood-soaked directive hounding at his heels.

Someone appeared in front of him, and with their only distinction the klaxon of fear from their presence, he reacted instinctively, thrusting out with the bayonet attached to his rifle, gut clenching at the wet slide of his blade impelling flesh toward lethal wound. A brief echo of his opponent’s injury flickered across his own abdomen, forcing a roil of nausea up as he kicked the thought of such an injury marring his person away.

Time seemed to pause at that, a stutter as the link shifted, before breaking with the other’s weak cry, garbled language that seemed to layer upon itself and yet be nothing mortal at all. The tightness in his throat crested, burning his eyes as he pushed onward unto the breach in a thanklessly unobscured path to his destination.

There was someone there, and he wasted no time in catching their attention. “ _Q_ ,” He said, voice rippling across the eons and patching the hole that was a rival death from view, “ _I have found a way to circumvent Q_.”

He was met with a baffling look, one of abject incomprehension coated in a thick guise of fragile hope. It bolstered his heart, determination steeling him as he stepped forward, resting a comforting hand on the other’s shoulder. That this was a Q, and not his Q (and what a curious ripple of affection and shock at his own thoughts), mattered little for his confusion, for he recognized this individual instantly as one of his own, a soldier under his command as surely as any crew of the _Enterprise_ during fraught circumstances.

Still, the words parading from his mouth were, although rousing in the manner his youth often practiced between antique novels and philosophical waxings, nevertheless firmly entrenched in the dreamscape he found himself in, “ _I have found a safe harbour in our storm, Q, fear not. Our cause is not abandoned, and our welfare secured by means as valiant as our banner_.”

This brought tears to the other’s eyes - and nearly to his own - though he knew simultaneously that they were the product of gratitude and relief, rather than the grim realization that the words were the precipitation of whatever the lifeboat caught up from the flotsam of that self-same storm. He breathed, giving a reassuring squeeze to this scout huddled in this lonely outpost, finding the energy to smile beatifically.

His wounds ached, the shoulder more than most, but the stiffness was swiftly denied an opportunity to show themselves. A leader ought to appear unaffected by such temporal concerns as _death_ and _pain_ , for all that they heavily factored into this conflict meant to ripple from their individual lives outward to the rest of the wide, imperilled world. The salubrious appreciation he received straightened his spine, pushing away the nausea that were the very quiet fears of every commander on the field, and with a nod, he settled into one of the newly-formed chairs that hid him just out of view from the lookout window.

It was a singular sensation to feel the overlapping sense of self on a body that both was and wasn’t his own. He sighed, the juxtaposed disconnect making him frown, a trepidatious ache at wishing for that unification between spirit and mind with a confoundingly unknown price.

“ _Capitaine,_ ” He murmured, lips moving without his precise authorization. The sensation was novel, and yet also devout, an appellation formed prayerfully upon hands clasped loosely over an atemporal rifle, “ _Mon capitaine, m’aider._ _ J'ai besoin de toi._”

Something rippled across their consciousness, breaking the connection in a way that had him grappling for the complementary plug, shouting and stamping feet echoing in his ears.

Jean-Luc gasped, eyes shooting open to see the plain wash of his ceiling. _M’aider, m’aider, m’aider…_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter's title is from William Shakespeare's _A Midsummer's Night Dream_ : "Love looks not with the eyes, but with the mind, And therefore is winged Cupid painted blind."
> 
> Glossary:  
>  _Guerre_ \- War (French)  
>  _Capitaine_ \- Captain (French)  
>  _Mon capitaine, m’aider. J'ai besoin de toi._ \- My captain, help me. I have need of you. (French)  
>  _M'aider_ \- Help me (French)
> 
> M'aider is, notably, the source of the aerial and naval phrase _mayday_. I found this portion of the [wiki](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Mayday) to be particularly pertinent:
>
>> Convention requires the word be repeated three times in a row during the initial emergency declaration ("Mayday mayday mayday") to prevent it being mistaken for some similar-sounding phrase under noisy conditions, and to distinguish an actual mayday call from a message about a mayday call.


End file.
